Poison Seed
by Zaedah
Summary: ‘Til death do them part' came with frightening expediency. Much POV
1. Chapter 1

This story is meant for entertainment purposes and does not represent the author's opinion on theological matters. No offense is intended.

**Poison Seed**

I saved Robin Hood.

Though entirely uncredited and completely unnoticed, the life of England's most notorious outlaw was pulled from the brink by an admittedly less than heroic feat. It was, in fact, by a lie.

At least, it might have been a lie. Not a colossal fabrication, mind you, since I fear Hellfire as much as the next man. And perhaps it contained a measure of truth, which, come to think of it, might actually be worse. In the end I suppose the significance matters little either way. My master lives. Because his servant planted a seed, hoping the roots would choke out the more fertile weeds of his despair.

I saved Robin Hood.

Because he talked to God and I didn't like what I wasn't supposed to hear. In the echoing shell of an ancient church, the Almighty was reminded that He'd taken everything Robin had; family, birthright, freedom, comfort, safety, trust and now…The latest loss went unnamed but even the daftest eavesdropper would comprehend. But these points were not voiced to accuse. Rather, based on this past history my master made a simple request. Once Gisbourne and the sheriff were satisfactorily dealt with, the Lord must finish what He started by taking the last of Robin's possessions; his life. There was weighted silence after this, its rancid tang suffocated me. And I understood.

The unspoken implications saw me removing my hat, clenching it in nervous fingers. He sought heavenly favor for his plan. But should God fail to act, the end would still be reached. The conception of the lie immediately followed. In the next few days, I felt the birth pangs sharply, as a mother enduring the emergence of a thorny baby. I swaddled and carried the fabrication tenderly until it could be passed on.

I saved Robin Hood.

But he is hardly intact. The remaining men watched in respectful silence as their leader crumbled, accepting the changes in him as though they were temporary. Perhaps they believed returning to our mission would rebuild him. Our duty to England and her people hadn't altered. Robin still gave the orders, organized raids and redistributed the wealth. But the motions were as mechanical as the sheriff's torture toys. The fresh scars left him no quicker to fury nor prone to sobs. Instead he suffers no range or extreme of emotion, the dead having no natural buoyancy one way or the other. How I long to hear his voice raised in anger or merriment. Passionate energy, giddy laughter and that ready grin were buried in foreign soil with a bleeding bride. 'Til death do them part came with frightening expediency.

The gang looked to me as the designated fixer. Robin's servant. Robin's friend. Robin's brother. None of these stations brought with them a solution any better than the one I crafted outside the abandoned worship house that morning, when the deal was proposed to God. So I handed Robin my unrequested evaluation of his options, sweating so profusely under my clothes and staring holes into the grassy hillside. Allowing him to think his secret plan to die remained entombed in that ruined church, I scaled his garden wall and dropped my poison seed into a crack in his barren soil. Time and consideration would see to the task of watering it. There'd be no choice but to think upon the idea and decide how the possibility fits into his plan. I have prayed fervently for that plan's eradication and for forgiveness for depositing such an evil lie into his heart. Had God given me another route, I would have gladly taken it. But He's been strangely silent on the matter. Perhaps I will yet see that Hellfire for interfering.

I saved Robin Hood.

Through manipulation of the grieving. I was striving for casual conversation but the words rushed from my lips like they were outrunning a noose. Perhaps I should well be hung for inventing this opinion for the occasion. Suicide, I told him, was a rejection of God's gift of life. Heaven, I explained, would refuse entry to one who angers the Lord by presuming to throw that gift back unwanted. And, of course, this included both direct self-murder and seeking an end at the convenient hand of another. All of this was intended to scare him, to give him pause the next time he puts himself purposely in harm's way. The roots of the seed will tell him that should he die intentionally, he will not join his beloved, for heaven will barricade its gates. No amount of cunning or skill of archery will gain him entrance.

The notion was an arrow and the precision of my aim was confirmed by the slow shift of his expression. Quite honestly, that any expression formed verified he'd heard. And he would think on it, thus the watering would be achieved. I had hoped that once the words were spilt, relief would come. To me at least. But though the lie has been passed on, it still burdens me. I am the mother who's offspring forever resides within, relentlessly kicking at the womb. Only now, we both feel its oppressive weight.

I saved Robin Hood.

Remarkable how my ploy to keep him alive also killed him further. I saved the legend, the hero of the people. His presence remains with us. But the man, my friend, is lost to us all, his corpse walking among us as hollow as an empty cupboard.

I saved Robin Hood and I've done him no favor.


	2. Chapter 2

Greetings to you, lovely RH reader. After receiving a few complaints about the way this story was left, I am back to rectify the apparent cause of depression. I hope this conclusion meets with approval. **  
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**Poison Seed 2**

Among the many people for whom I have done no favors lately, I can now include four of the sheriff's guard trainees. Having told my master that he cannot seek his end and expect to be rewarded by the heavenly hosts, it appears Robin has taken my words well beyond their intended aim. The gang is quite safe these days, as no one can get near enough to harm us. And should anyone breach our imaginary line, Robin sees that they are reminded just how deadly his skill can be.

In every moment, we are reminded of his loss. Because in every moment, he sinks deeper into the grave with her.

He has forgotten mercy. Just inquire of the bodies riddled with arrows. They may well have passed us blindly, but were alerted to our presence by way of bloodletting that lacked civilized warning. Robin's arrows flew before we had a chance to determine their destination. It is conceivable that the forest will run out of impromptu burial spots before the sheriff runs out of men. And all these hasty pits make for stumbling when hunting rabbit, as I was always taught to walk on no man's grave.

That seed of doubt I planted has turned into a most vicious sort of weed. A sinister root system has dug its tendrils deep into my friend, cultivating the dark despair into some mangled version of a protector. That's what I get for intruding on someone else's grief, I imagine. As with most of my plans, it is the smaller details, those of which I am most certain, that cause everything to go so terribly awry.

I am hardly alone in the self-blame, which is not to say I welcome the company. John looks upon me as a sort of traitor. Without knowledge of what I'd done, he has surmised that the change in Robin stems from our private talk. John's eyes, brown of the earth and bushy enough to hide sparrows, turn to me often and pointedly. What have I done, that gaze always asks. He hates the stench of death hovering as fog over the camp. The bodies pile up, only not, it seems, on Robin's conscience. I broke what I was meant to fix.

My silent protests of his accusations, attempted through a firm glare, have no visible effect. Was it not this very group of scoundrels who hefted upon me the duty of fixing the impossible? Did not they leave to me the task of pulling Robin away from his suicidal ledge? What wizard am I that I should have predicted this violent turn? And anyway, they certainly don't complain of the safer sleep earned at the hand of Robin's fierce guarding. I too wake less knowing the aggressive bow covers us all, aware that not a soldier's foot can step near the camp.

I saved Robin Hood. And consequently saved us all.

But that speaks nothing toward his soul. I have sold it to keep him here. In my mind, I am still his best friend, but the words cower and hide behind my lips. They wish not be spoken for the lie of it. A real friend would have let events take their course, regardless of result. A true brother would advise and encourage, not plot and condemn. But I did it out of love, no matter how hollow the justification.

I sit alone now, asking the starless sky why it no longer deigns to sparkle for us. Perhaps heaven has closed its eyes to the trials below, denouncing the folly of humanity. An earlier attempt at sleep had produced a dream so reproachful, I'd woken with shaking gasps. The final authority on my deed appeared as a vision of gray pallor. There was no face, but none was needed. She raised a hand rather than a voice; a disapproving gesture from the dead, to be sure.

I saved Robin Hood. But my screaming defense went unheard.

In that place where the apparition defied my motives, not even sound could live. Even now, surrounded by open air and forest, I feel small. Closed in. The forest is a coffin to me this night and she is my burier. I still see the figure, shrouded in the muted haze of death. No amount of blinking vanquishes the form burned into my eyes. The hand is held aloft in permanence.

I understood that gesture. The thin hand acted as an ax raised to sever a mutinous head.

England will go on through many more centuries without any of us, our names erased by time's scouring winds. Even the tale of Robin Hood may last only a generation beyond the present. Would history have been insolvably altered if Robin of Locksley, Earl of Huntington, had died by his own hand? It is conceivable that given time, he would have found the ledge unbearable and returned to us of his own choosing.

In the beginning I sought to be a savior, a hero in this destructive chapter. In the end I assumed the role of executioner, severing Robin's freedom to grieve.

He stands now, sentry for a half dozen men lost in dreams of their own freedom. From my bedroll I watch the shoulders of the ready; flexed arms taut and bow in hand. He hears the sound before I do and lifeless eyes seek the source. My knees shake as I move from the ground to take position behind the nearest oak. The passing man is young, the soldier's armor hanging from a frame not developed enough to carry it. We were once that young I suspect, though the feeling of innocence escapes me. The lad treads along the path heavily, unaccustomed to stealth as he lumbers under the burden of a sword swinging at his side.

In one swift movement, my master has the arrow leveled on the young man, trailing his progress. Then the soldier's hand grasps the sword handle and I know what proceeds this; another burial. My eyes shift quickly from the lad to Robin's arrow, anticipating the moment when the feathered wood will leave the bow to lodge inside the boy's chest. The archer's perfect angle falters, the straight line he's drawn lowers toward the ground slowly. He hesitates.

I saved Robin Hood. And possibly the boy as well.

The lad adjusts the sword, seeking a more comfortable resting spot just behind his hip. Robin shakes his head, his breath coming in heaves. Either he can not believe he's passed up the shot or cannot accept that the shot was even considered. I am afraid to discover which and therefore turn back to camp to resume my sleepless night. My feet stop after the third step and my head turns without permission. I am grateful for those involuntary impulses because my tired eyes find that Robin has sunk to his knees. His head rests on the hand grip at the center of the bow, shoulders losing their rigid resolve in favor of a light shaking. I know not if there is a prayer being uttered but personally I intend to indulge in a few straight away. Something, no everything feels different in this moment. A change that coats the camp like fresh snow; cleansing, pure. I catch John's eye and think maybe he feels it too. There is a nod from the big man and it is clear he witnessed what transpired.

I saved Robin Hood. But perhaps…perhaps he saved himself.


End file.
